Mr. C

My oldest child, C, is two-years-old. He talks so well, though, that I sometimes forget he’s only two. I mean, really…Any child that can say archaeopteryx should know that pouring milk in the floor is not socially acceptable unless there is a spider in it.

He’s so full of questions. I hear them all day long. “Why?” “What’s it doing?” “Who made the flowers?” “What’s that noise?” (It was thunder.) “What makes thunder?”

I asked C what he wanted to be when he grew up, and I knew the answer would be good. He didn’t even have to think about it.

“I want to be a giant, when I get really big!” he replied.

“Oh really, and what job will you have?” I asked.

“Stepping on stuff.”

Sounds like logic to me.

Now if I could just get him to believe that sleeping makes you grow…